Chapter 132: Those are My Clothes

They walk right on by me while I'm blowing my nose with a scrunched-up tissue, looking like an absolute mess. Vincent opens the closet door and the other man pushes the rack in without question.

"You bought me more clothes?" A whole rack of them? If I didn't feel as if there might be truth to me having the fever Vincent accused me of having a few minutes ago, I would jump from the bed and search through them.

It's absurd. I don't need more clothes.

But then I notice something familiar at the end of the rack sticking out of the closet. It's a cream color with green on the sleeves—a sweatshirt with a big green print of Sparty's head on the front.

That is my sweatshirt.

I paid twenty-five dollars for that at a rally by The Rock, which was this enormous boulder on campus where groups fight over the privilege of painting. At least fifty years of paint is splattered on the thing, but walking by it every day on campus was an experience. Every night a new group claimed the space and